


the care and handling of the winter soldier

by xombiebean



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Steve Rogers, Bathing/Washing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Size Difference, Skinny Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 20:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15008639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xombiebean/pseuds/xombiebean
Summary: The asset loses itself beneath Steve’s hands. Each gentle, yet firm, touch grounds it and roots it firmly to this moment. Steve speaks in a gentled tone, calling the asset home, reminding the asset that it is safe here, in Steve’s claw-foot tub, in Steve’s apartment.





	the care and handling of the winter soldier

**Author's Note:**

> this is hella self-indulgent. i just really love shrinkyclinks.

Steve likes to leave the windows open, especially when he’s painting. The smell of turpentine and oil paint irritates his lungs, but Steve has yet to let physical pain stop him. He does what he sets his mind to, body and destiny be damned. What this means, most importantly, is that the asset has easy access to Steve’s apartment. After a two-week mission with endless complications and sloppy results, all the asset wants is to kneel at Steve’s feet like a beloved, obedient dog while Steve runs his kind, clever hands through the asset’s hair. The asset feels exhaustion beating at the edges of its vision, draped over its mind like a thick, suffocating blanket. It is filthy, covered in dried sweat and others’ blood and viscera. Black paint is smudged around its eyes, smeared down its face. 

After missions, when Hydra still owned the asset, its handler and a team would debrief it, and then the asset would be cleaned and returned to its cell or cryochamber. The asset no longer belongs to Hydra. Now, the asset is a member of the Avengers, who care little for protocol. After each mission with the Avengers, the asset is released to its block of rooms, with no post-mission instructions. The sterile rooms, the quiet—they are too much after the adrenaline of a mission. So the asset went and found itself the closest approximation to a handler that it could. The asset found Steve, and Steve took the asset home with him.

Steve knows how to make it better. Steve herds the asset into the shower and scrubs it clean. Steve takes care of the asset: he cleans, clothes, and feeds it. He looks at the asset as if it is not an unspeakable terror, as if it is not a lost cause, as if it is not a bomb that could go off at any second. Steve looks at the asset as if it is good, as if it deserves the kindness in his eyes and reverence in his hands.

The asset finds Steve curled up, sound asleep, in the fetal position on the couch, smeared paint dry on his forearms and hands. Steve whimpers in his sleep and twitches, tossing his head. The bags beneath his eyes are bruise-blue thumbprints, and the asset regrets being gone so long.

Something eases in the asset’s mind, as it kneels next to Steve’s unconscious frame, to have proof that Steve is still alive and well and breathing. Steve is not delicate, but he is breakable, and he has no regard for his own safety. The asset’s flesh hand is filthy, covered in grime and sweat and blood, and yet the asset cannot stop itself from gently pressing its thumb to the furrow in Steve’s brow and smoothing it out. Here, in front of it, is the reason the asset has been able to keep pockets of time, memories that tether it back to Steven G. Rogers.

Steve, always a light sleeper, startles awake. “You’re back,” he says muzzily, his face breaking into a wide grin. He reaches out a hand and touches the asset’s face.

The asset leans into Steve’s touch, eyelids closing at the sensation that it has missed for the duration of the mission.

“How’d it go?” Steve asks.

“Mission outcome: successful,” the asset says.

“Yeah?” Steve says, smiling fondly at the asset. “What was it this time? Aliens? Killer robots? Another megalomaniac?”

“Hydra cell.”

“Proud of you, pal,” Steve says. “You okay?”

“Current status: approximate 70% functional, due to exhaustion and minor damage sustained. Damage is short term and superficial.”

Steve’s brow creases again with worry. “Did medical take a look at you and clear you after the mission?”

“Yes,” the asset says.

“Okay,” Steve says, “okay.” he stretches and then eases himself off the couch. “So this is what we’re going to do, big guy. We’re gonna get you cleaned up and then we’ll get some food in ya—have you eaten?”

“No.”

“All right. I’ll see what I have in my fridge but we’ll probably have to get you one of your supersoldier shakes and then we’ll get you into bed, okay?”

“Yes.”

“All right. C’mon then.” 

The asset stands and follows Steve as he gathers a spare t-shirt and sweatpants from the store of clothing that the asset keeps at Steve’s apartment. It follows as Steve opens the door to his bathroom and sets the clothing on the counter.

“Towels under the sink, you got clothes. I’ll go and get your shake and some leftovers started and—“

The asset grasps Steve’s wrist gently, with his flesh hand. “Please,” it says. “Stay.” Everything is jumbled up, and the asset begins to panic, torn between this moment and ingrained habits. The asset wants—the asset does not want. The asset is not allowed to want because the asset is incapable of wanting. The asset does not make demands on handlers. Handlers give orders that the asset follows. Steve has given an implicit order. The asset must obey. The asset must not question its handlers. But Steve is not a handler. Steve is...the asset does not know Steve’s classification/designation.

 _Anytime, if I do something wrong or something you don’t like, you can tell me. If I ask you to do something you do not want to do, you do not have to do it._ Steve said these things to the asset. Do these rules still stand? Has the asset missed—

“Hey, hey,” Steve says, stepping into the asset’s space, because he is stupid and foolhardy, because he will always run towards a grenade instead of away from it. “I can stay.”

The asset forces itself to regulate its breathing, like Banner taught him. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I thought—I thought you might want some privacy. Your therapist—“

The asset snarls. It does not care what the Avengers-appointed therapist has said. The Avengers-appointed therapist probably goes home and kicks his cat after work. 

“It’s just—it’s—” Steve stammers, looking so small and uncomfortable. Steve looks away, and down. “He said that by helping you, I wasn’t, uh...helping you.”

The asset stares at Steve, scrutinizes him. 

Steve flushes, cheeks turning pink, and he shifts uncomfortably. “I was told that I was hindering your recovery,” Steve tells the floor, “by following the same post-mission procedures as when hydra had you.”

The asset puts its fist through the wall. 

Startled, Steve glances up at him almost immediately. He is concerned, but not afraid. “Are you—let me see that,” he demands gently. The asset obeys and holds out his flesh hand, still clenched in a fist, for Steve. “Oh Buck,” Steve sighs, cradling his fist in his hands. The asset’s hand is dusty with plaster and its knuckles are raw and bloody. “Did you break or fracture anything in your fist?”

“No,” the asset says.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, gently palpating the area. “Does this hurt?”

“Steve,” the asset says. “The injury is superficial.”

Steve gives him a small, worried smile as he searches the asset’s face. “You’re lucky my walls are so thin,” he huffs.

“Steve,” the asset says again, pained. “Please—” it stops, unsure of how to continue.

Steve bites his lip. “I know, big guy,” he says. “I just—they’re worried I’m enabling your dependency on me, and I don’t...I don’t want to stand in the way of your recovery.”

The asset considers putting its fist through the wall again. “Stupid,” it says instead, mouth curling around the consonants, spitting the word out. It startles a laugh from Steve. 

Steve is the asset’s emergency contact. Steve is everything. Steve is light and warmth and goodness. Steve is a mean little spitfire with a short fuse when it comes to injustice. Steve is the only person keeping the asset from drowning. Steve is the only one who seems to understand what the asset needs. Steve is the reason the asset’s mind has not splintered and frayed more than it has.

“Please,” the asset says. 

“Okay,” Steve says. He steps backwards, farther into the bathroom so that the asset has space to follow. “All right. Bath time?”

Steve asks this question each time, despite the routine that has been established. The asset does not understand why Steve continues to ask. “Bath,” the asset confirms. Showers bring memories of torture and conditioning cascading back into its mind, until the asset is blind to the present, held hostage by the past.

Steve quirks a smile at him and sets about turning on the faucet. He tests the water, adjusting the knob until it reaches the right temperature. He then adjusts it so that the trickle of water turns into a flood. 

“Let’s get your clothes off,” he says over the roar of water, as he turns back to the asset. “Do you want help?” This, too, is a question that Steve asks each time, and the asset always replies:

“Yes.”

Steve steps forward, into the asset’s space, and begins the process of unbuckling the asset’s combat vest. His fingers are deft as he undoes the buckles, and he unerringly finds each of the asset’s concealed weapons, neatly placing each one on the bathroom counter, next to the sink. Steve helps the asset out of the vest and places it in the laundry basket. Its moisture-wicking long-sleeve shirt soon joins the vest in the basket, and then Steve is kneeling down to untie the laces of the asset’s boots so that the asset can step out of them.

The asset shucks its pants, boxer briefs, and socks, all of them landing in the laundry basket. It stands there naked, waiting for Steve’s say-so. It smells rank: two weeks without bathing and with just baby wipes for cleanup. The asset curls its toes and hunches slightly, trying to make itself smaller.

Steve turns off the faucet. Steam rises from the water. “All right,” he says. “Let’s get you on in. we’re probably gonna have to run you a few baths.”

The asset lets out a contented sigh as it steps into the tub and sinks down in the water, curling its metal arm around the lip of the tub to keep it dry. Grime floats off of the asset, clouding and dirtying the water. Steve pulls a stool next to the tub and sits himself down, washcloth in hand. He dips the cloth in the water and soaps it, using it to gently wash the asset’s face. The asset dips its head forward once Steve is finished, to wash the soap and dirt and blood away. Steve moves to re-wet the cloth and begin wiping down the asset’s shoulders and chest.

The asset loses itself beneath Steve’s hands. Each gentle, yet firm, touch grounds it and roots it firmly to this moment. Steve speaks in a gentled tone, calling the asset home, reminding the asset that it is safe here, in Steve’s claw-foot tub, in Steve’s apartment. He talks about everything and nothing: art commissions, work at the little coffee shop one block over. The asset is not a lucky creature, and it does not know how it had the good fortune to be found by one Steven G. Rogers.

Steve has the asset stand so that he can drain and refill the tub. He takes this time to carefully scrub the asset down. Once the tub is refilled, Steve washes the asset’s hair, gentle with the tangles. Shampoo and then conditioner, and he takes a toothbrush to the asset’s arm, diligently cleaning the grooves between the plates and wiping it down with a damp cloth. Steve’s gaze is intent as he examines its arm to make sure he did not miss a spot, and the asset cannot stop itself—does not want to stop itself—from leaning over and kissing him softly. Steve kisses him back with a happy sound, and then pulls away. “Stop distracting me,” he chides, but his wide, pleased grin belies any firmness in his voice.

Steve helps the asset dry off after it’s all clean, which is more counter-productive than legitimately helpful. The asset wraps the towel around its waist and drags the stool Steve was sitting on closer. It eagerly sits down on the stool, because this—this is the asset’s favorite part. Leaning over the asset, Steve gently towels its hair. They learned together a while ago that blow dryers do not mix well with the asset’s malfunctioning programming.

“I missed you,” Steve says. He murmurs the words against the asset’s neck as he brushes out the asset’s hair, sending a tingle running down the asset’s spine. The asset loses itself in the feeling. “Look how beautiful you are,” Steve says simply and honestly, once the asset’s hair is only somewhat damp. The asset’s chest tightens at the soft praise; Steve’s praise is something that discomforts the asset and yet it would rather lose a limb than Steve’s continual praise. Steve presses a kiss to the asset’s cheek, and the asset closes its eyes briefly at the sensation.

“What’d’you want to eat?” Steve asks as the asset pulls on the clothes Steve set out. “I can heat something up.”

The asset follows Steve into the kitchen, looming behind him like a shadow with separation anxiety. “Nutrient shake, please?” the asset asks meekly, ducking its head.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he says, looking up at the asset fondly. He scoops the powder specially formulated to help supersoldiers keep up with their caloric intake into the blender and adds water. He then turns to the fridge and pulls out peanut butter and chocolate ice cream, because part of Steve’s modus operandi seems to be spoiling the asset. He blends it together, pours it into a glass, and hands it to the asset.

The asset takes the glass and follows Steve to the couch, where he’s cued up an episode of _Psych_ on his laptop. Steve curls up in the asset’s lap and falls asleep as they watch, which, the asset concludes, means that Steve hasn’t been sleeping much since the asset left. It gathers Steve close, and, as always, worries about Steve’s weight. He is skin and bones, and taking care of himself has never been his forte.

The asset is not really a man. It is barely even human. But it would rend the world in two to keep Steve safe. The asset will watch over Steve. It will take care. It will protect. The parameters of its mission when it comes to Steve have always been these.


End file.
